


The Language of Flowers

by MelayneSeahawk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book Elements, Flowers, Historical Shenanigans, Language of Flowers, M/M, TV Show Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: five times Crowley gave Aziraphale flowers





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momebie (katilara)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katilara/gifts).

> for momebie, who prompted me to write about Crowley giving Aziraphale flowers (based somewhat on a missing scene from the tv show), and I couldn't help turning it into a Five Things Fic
> 
> notes on historical accuracy at the end

**London, 1800**

Opening day, and the cluttered rooms of  **Mr. A Fell Purveyor of Books to the Gentry, Established 1800** are busy, filled with the sorts of ladies and gentlemen who were wealthy enough to own books but not so wealthy they would not deign to shop for them themselves. Mr. Fell walks among them, pleased as Punch, with an excited smile one might also most call angelic.

Aziraphale is very proud of his new bookshop, one of only a handful of its kind in all of London. The shelves are filled with both his own collection and new purchases, volumes of science and literature intermingled in a way only Aziraphale truly understands. His books of prophecy and other unusual specimens are hidden in the backroom, just in case; almost everything in the front rooms are volumes he thinks he’d be willing to part with, or were ordered specially from the printers for sale. Somehow the space is already dusty, motes catching the sunlight through the bubbled glass windows.

“Ah, Mr. Fell!” a familiar voice calls from the entryway, and Aziraphale turns to see Crowley weaving between the prospective customers with his usual serpentine grace. He is holding a large conical parcel in his arms.

Aziraphale moves toward him, and they convene on the till, where a protrusion from the wall contains a small safe, a counting tray, and a ledger for inventory. “Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale says, tone pleased. Not even the risk of Crowley causing mischief can tarnish his good mood. “In Soho on business?”

“Not at all,” Crowley says brightly, scooping his hat from his head and passing the large cone to Aziraphale with just enough force than the angel cannot help but take it. “I have come to congratulate you on your new endeavor, and wish you the best of luck,” he says, gesturing broadly to encompass the new shop.

Aziraphale smiles and demures slightly, opening the strange package on the counter. The paper parts to reveal a dozen spiky stalks of columned flowers, each circular, apple green calyx containing a drooping white blossom. A light, sweet perfume fills the air. “Beautiful, what are they?” he says, reaching down below the counter for a vase that wasn’t there a moment ago to put them in.

“Bells of Ireland, or bellflowers,” Crowley says, touching one of the little green bells with surprising delicacy. “In the language of flowers, they’re meant to indicate luck.”

“Language of flowers?” Aziraphale asks, adding water to the vase with a tap of his finger and then fussing with the proper positioning of the stalks.

“It’s a new thing that’s just becoming all the rage now, the Ottomans do it,” Crowley says, lightly. “I’m sure they’ll be printing guides to it soon enough.”

“Awfully thoughtful of you, old boy,” Aziraphale says, pleased when the compliment causes Crowley’s face to pinch up like he wants to protest. Aziraphale knows the demon’s not really mad about it, but it brings him a certain pleasure to ruffle the demon’s feathers? Scales? As you like.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says briskly, brushing invisible lint from his cuff. “I’ll come back for one of those new volumes of old Will’s work. I shall enjoy removing Hamlet from the binding and burning the leaves.” He laughs over Aziraphale’s outraged squawk, and sashays back out onto the street.

***

**Greece, 685 BCE**

Crawley is already well on his way to drunk when Aziraphale finds him, slouched on the ground on top of a small hillock outside the polis, a jug of unwatered wine at his side, his lap full of flowers.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale says, gently lowering himself to the grass beside him. Aziraphale’s night vision isn’t as good as Crawley’s, but it’s better than a human’s, so he can see what look like tear tracks on Crawley’s cheeks. He looks down guiltily, gaze falling on Crawley’s lap, where he realizes that the demon is making a chain, no, a wreath of the flowers, purple and white and red in no discernible pattern.

“Astersss,” Crawley says, holding up a handful of the blooms and dumping them into Aziraphale’s lap. “They’ve got a--a myssss, a my _ th _ around here, some goddess girl cried over the stars and her tears turned into flowers.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are still on Crawley’s hands, long deft fingers weaving the flowers together. Dragging his eyes away, he looks up at the unclouded night sky above them, the stars in singles and clusters like sesame seeds scattered over a drape of dark wool, the Milky Way a ribbon of light and dark across the sky. “The sky is beautiful tonight.”

“Sssky’s alwaysss beautiful,” Crawley hisses, but he looks up as well, yellow eyes moving lazily. “I worked on sssome of it, back Before.”

“You hung stars?” Aziraphale says, not so much incredulous as shocked. More than three thousand years of bumping into each other, and Crawley's never once even mentioned his Fall or what had come Before it.

Crawley nods sloppily, reaching down to grab another swig off the jug of wine, before thoughtlessly offering it to Aziraphale. “Most of my part, you can’t sssee from here, but it’s out there, dancing to the musssic of the ssspheresss.” He shakes his head and turns his attention back to his lap.

Aziraphale holds the jug of wine for a long while before taking a tentative sip. It’s not swill, but not as nice as he usually prefers, either. He drinks more deeply, then sets the jug aside. For a moment he wonders what Crawley had been like Before. What his name had been.

“Here, ‘sss finished,” Crawley says triumphantly, holding up the wreath. He grins lopsidedly, strange eyes glinting in the starlight, and drops the wreath on Aziraphale’s head. It fits perfectly.

“It’s not for you?” Aziraphale asks, and Crawley shakes his head. Aziraphale reaches up to touch the delicate petals on his forehead.

Crawley shakes his head again, hard enough he almost fell over, rocking and eventually coming to rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder, an unexpected but somehow welcome intimacy to the angel. “Nah, ‘sss for you,” he mutters into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Sssorry I got so drunk,” he adds. “We can catch up tomorrow.”

Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crawley’s thin shoulders to stabilize him, and the demon snuggles a little closer, it seems despite himself. “Everything alright, old boy?”

Crawley makes a sound Aziraphale can’t decipher, reaching up to wipe salty tear tracks from his cheeks. “‘M fine, ‘m alwaysss fine, angel.”

Crawley is silent for a long while, and Aziraphale lets him be. “Ready to go?” Aziraphale finally asks, as the eastern sky began to lighten.

“‘M not sure I can stand.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “That’s alright, we can stay here for a little longer.”

***

**Japan, 1589**

All in all, Aziraphale had been finding his time in Japan very restful. True, the struggles between factions all over the islands did not make for a peaceful country, but the battlefield is always a wonderful place for the occasional offhand miracle. Aziraphale does what he can, but he spends most of his time in Kyoto.

Here in the capital it is reasonably serene, a center of art and culture. Here Aziraphale can participate in tea ceremonies and learn the secrets of brush and ink. Here he can pretend to be just another European aesthete taking in Japanese traditions, hiding in the rebuilt city from the war that still rages in the provinces.

Aziraphale is sitting in the garden of his guesthouse when Crowley visits, a small stream burbling along at the edge of the property. His tea is cooling in the spring breeze, his  _ gyosho _ laid out before him with his brush and inkstick and stone set out beside a currently-blank sheet of mulberry paper spread on his tabletop.

“Greetings, Crowley-san,” Aziraphale says, once Crowley has picked his way through to garden to where he is sitting. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I’ve brought you something,” Crowley says, with that tone he uses when he’s trying to tempt Aziraphale to try some new delicacy or a bottle of wine. He gently places something on the table next to Aziraphale’s tea set. “They’re calling it  _ ikebana _ , it’s the newest thing,” he adds, grinning rakishly.

Aziraphale looks at it curiously. The base seems to be made up of a largish river stone, smoothed to a gentle curve by the water, with a careful hole drilled in the top. From the hole sprout a couple of thin, spindly twigs and a pair of carefully placed red camellia blossoms. “I thought flower arrangements like these were just for temples.”

“Ah, don’t touch it!” Crowley scolds, and Aziraphale quickly pulls his hand away from where he had been reaching out to touch one of the blooms. “They’re for displaying in homes as well, different styles.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Aziraphale says honestly, turning to look at it from different angles. “Did you buy it in the market.”

“I, uh, I made it,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale looks up quickly to see that Crowley is blushing ever so faintly. “I got bored, decided I’d sit in on some lessons with one of the masters. You know how it is, can’t spend all your time tempting people or sleeping.”

“I don’t really sleep,” Aziraphale says absently, most of his attention on Crowley’s face. The demon seems suddenly awkward, so he looks away quickly, back at the floral arrangement. “What should I do with it?”

“I’m sure your rooms have a display alcove,” Crowley says, looking away over the carefully manicured garden, the burbling stream, the birds nesting in the maple whose branches stretch over the flowing water.

“Ah, I know just the place, then,” Aziraphale says, standing and lifting the  _ ikebana _ in both hands. “And when my calligraphy is done, I will give it to you to hang in your rooms.”

“Oh, you don’t have to, angel,” Crowley says quickly, coloring again, and Aziraphale wonders at his reaction.

“Well, join me for dinner, then,” Aziraphale says, stepping around Crowley to head into the house. “The proprietress of this guesthouse makes a lovely tempura.”

“If you insist,” Crowley says, smiling, and follows him inside.

***

**Eden, In the Beginning**

Eden is beautiful, full of green and growing things. The animals are lovely, too, all kinds of interesting creatures wandering past were Aziraphale sits, guarding the Eastern Gate. The addition of the humans has been exciting, and watching them name all the plants and animals is a delightful way to pass the time. The days are sunny and warm, and at night the sky is full of countless stars.

Aziraphale knows that there is a demon in Garden, has seen him walking or slithering around sometimes, watching the humans. The demon doesn’t seem to be causing any trouble, though, so Aziraphale lets it go, since the instructions he’d been given were  _ guard the gate _ and not much else. And the demon hadn’t tried to come in or go out through the gate, or even interact with the humans, as far as he could tell, so he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it, if anything.

“What do you think of them?” the demon asks him one day, and Aziraphale turns to see that he’s in a human-shaped body, rather than a snake’s lithe form.

“What should I think of them?” he asks, shrugging. “They’re Her creatures, they seem pleasant enough.”

“I heard they’ve got this new thing, free will,” the demon says. “Means they aren’t bound by a Plan, like we are.”

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal noise and turns back to watching them frolic with a creature they’ve named a sheep. “They seem so full of joy.”

The demon glances at the Tree, its apples gleaming in the afternoon sun, and shakes his head. “I wonder if there would still have been a war, if we’d been given this free will thing.”

Aziraphale doesn’t like to think about the war, about the violence and the bloodshed and the friends he’s lost, either to the sword or to the Fall. Most angels don’t, so far as he can tell. There was War in Heaven, but they don’t...talk about it, or the ones they’ve lost. He doesn’t think he recognizes this demon from before, though his molten gold eyes certainly are striking.

“Oh, almost forgot, I brought you something,” the demon says, reaching down behind the rock they’re sitting on and picking up a bundle of...Aziraphale’s not quite sure what they are. “Flowers,” the demon says to his uncomprehending look. “From the other side of the Garden.”

“Oh, they’re quite beautiful,” Aziraphale says, taking the bunch. They’re a riot of different colors and shapes and smells, and Aziraphale brings them to his nose to inhale their perfume. “Do they have names yet?”

“Don’t think so,” the demon says. “Not sure the humans have gotten to that part of the Garden yet, honestly.”

“They’re lovely, thank you,” Aziraphale says, confused when the demon wrinkled his nose.

“Well, you seem so fascinated with everything, and you don’t leave this side of the Garden, so I thought I might show you what you were missing.”

“That’s very kind of you. No, really,” Aziraphale adds, when the demon makes a dismissive noise.

“Tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you, angel,” the demon says grumpily, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile.

***

**London, Now**

After the world doesn’t end, after Adam returns his shop almost to normal, after Heaven and Hell are tricked by their little plan, Aziraphale returns to his shop, a little reluctant to examine the new volumes Adam has added, but otherwise content. He’ll have to recatalogue the whole collection, but Aziraphale takes a quiet sort of joy in that kind of work.

He’s just settled in with a stack of books and a cocoa when the shop bells rings, and he smiles. The door is locked, which means it must be Crowley at the door. He waits patiently, and a few minutes later the demon pokes his head into the back room, a fond smile on his face. “Getting to work already?” he asks, stepping fully into the room, hands behind his back.

“No time like the present, dear boy,” Aziraphale says. “What have you got there?”

Crowley’s grin widens and he reveals a paper cone of flowers with a flourish, handing them to Aziraphale.

“Bellflowers!” Aziraphale exclaims, recognizing the green stalks and white blossoms. “Like when I--”

“When you opened the shop, yep,” Crowley says, popping the ‘p’. “So I thought, new shop and all, and I was feeling nostalgic…”

“They’re lovely, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, unwrapping the cone and conjuring a vase. “Oh, it looks like there was a mistake,” he adds, drawing a single crimson tulip from the center of the bunch.

“No mistake,” Crowley says softly, and Aziraphale looks up to see that his hands are twisted together nervously. “Do you remember the language of flowers?”

“Only vaguely,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley’s face falls. “I should have an old guide around here somewhere, though, just a mo.”

He could hear Crowley fiddling with something on his desk while he does a quick mental search of the shop, before heading to a particularly dusty corner where he thinks an old floriography text might be hiding. His memory serves him well, and he finds it tucked in with some especially florid volumes of poetry. “Aha, I found it!” he calls, and Crowley makes an untranslatable noise in response. “Now let me see, tulips,” he says as he walks back to the bookshop’s back room.

He stops stock still in the doorway when he reaches the appropriate page, reading over it a second time to make sure he’s got it right. He looks up at Crowley, who looks as nervous as Aziraphale has ever seen him, apocalypses included. “It says here a single red tulip is a declaration of undying love,” he says quietly.

Crowley nods, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses but the tilt of his lovely shoulders completely miserable. Before he can say anything, Aziraphale steps forward quickly, closing the space between them and cupping his angular face in his hands. This close, he can see Crowley’s eyes, staring straight at him.

“Oh, darling boy,” Aziraphale says, heart overflowing, and kisses him. Crowley’s lips fall open in surprise, which just allows Aziraphale to deepen the kiss, and after a breathless moment Crowley is kissing back, hands coming up to cup Aziraphale’s hips.

Aziraphale doesn’t know how long the kiss lasts, but eventually they separate, breathing softly against each other’s mouths. “Let me take you to lunch,” he says, voice oddly breathless. “What do the young people call it, dating?”

“If you so much as say the word ‘woo’ in my presence, I’ll discorporate you,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale laughs brightly, taking his hand and dragging him out of the dim shop and into the summer sun.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, I know I did some mix-and-match with the ikebana/flower arrangement stuff, but I didn't want to get lost for a week doing research.
> 
> all indicated flower meanings are based on relevant region and time period.
> 
> yes, the language of flowers was a thing in the Ottoman Empire before it came to England and the Victorians got a little obsessed.
> 
> the internet does not know what bellflowers smell like.
> 
> [reblog link](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/post/187973975759/the-language-of-flowers-melayneseahawk-good)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/)!


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